Doctor's Orders
by pixie blue
Summary: Mid-case, John is poisoned by the targets of one of Sherlock's investigations. Convinced it's too dangerous to let him stay in hospital, Sherlock takes matters into his own hands – he decides to nurse John back to health himself. Can he cope, or will he crumble just when John needs him the most? No slash. Possible spoilers up to S2E2. Rated T for mild swears and violence.
1. Never Trust a Pretty Face

A/N: Greetings, fellow Sherlockians! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so here's hoping all goes well and everyone enjoys it! Sherlock is a far different character than any I've written for before, and I've tried really hard to get him right. I hope that effort is reflected in my writing - if not, let me know via review and I'll try even harder!

Anyway (and again), hope you all enjoy.

-pixie.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

John sighed, signalling to the bartender to give him another round. It seemed weird now, not being on case with Sherlock. Mycroft had all but forced Sherlock into compliance, which naturally was a source of annoyance to the world's only consulting detective. John wasn't allowed to know anything about Sherlock's current investigation, despite Sherlock's protests.

_"Sherlock, it's been difficult enough convincing my client to allow you to assist him in rectifying his... situation. There's simply no way that I can let John get involved this time." He smiled thinly. "Apologies."_

_"I _need _an assistant," Sherlock persisted._

_"I can provide you with the best-"_

_Sherlock snorted. "They're not John. John's a good conductor of brilliance, despite not being brilliant himself." John rolled his eyes. He had grown fairly immune to Sherlock's insults, knowing by now that most were unintended._

_"Sherlock, there will be no further discussion on this matter. You _will_ take this case, and you will _not_ tell John a thing about it."_

_"Can you please stop talking like I'm not here?"_

_They both ignored him. "Make me," Sherlock retorted, seeming close to sticking out his tongue._

_"I assure you, I will. Sherlock, if you don't comply, I will have you arrested." The thin smile returned. "And believe me, you would not do well in prison."_

_Sulkily, Sherlock crossed his arms. "Well, I have no pressing cases at the moment. I guess I can lower myself to accepting a handout, even if it's from you."_

_Mycroft nodded, steeping his fingers. "How gracious of you," he replied, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. He glanced briefly in John's direction, almost as if he'd forgotten he was there. "Leave us now, John."_

_John glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged and nodded. With a nod of his own, John stood abruptly and left the room._

_"Now, Sherlock, I know how difficult you like to be, but just this once, would it be too painful for you to act civilised? My client only needs..." The rest of the conversation became muffled as John closed the door._

He stared morosely at the dregs in the bottom of his glass. Strange, how quickly he had grown used to being a crime-solving genius' sidekick. It really did feel odd being kept out of the loop.

"Bad day at work?" A pretty brunette with dancing chocolate eyes leaned her elbows on the bar, very close to John. She was dressed in a modest white waistcoat top and dark jeans, but both were so form-fitting that it was sexier than any of the low-cut, thigh-high dresses that draped many other girls in the bar.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he replied, eying her appreciatively.

She cocked her head. "How so?"

"Well... I'm sort of an assistant consulting detective in my spare time. I've just been barred from assisting in an investigation."

"Consulting detective? I know I've heard that term before..." She grinned suddenly, perfect white teeth flashing between a set of full lips. "Of course, Sherlock Holmes! You must be Dr. Watson."

"John, please."

Hands cupping her heart-shaped face, she stared at him intently, eyes wide. "Lydia. What's solving crimes like, John? It sounds really romantic."

"We're not a couple."

Sudden laughter pealed out, surprisingly deep and hearty. "I didn't mean like that! Oh, you poor thing, you must get that a lot." She patted his hand sympathetically, leaving hers resting on top of his. John grinned a little to himself, the alcohol in his system making him more loose-tongued than he'd normally be.

"It's alright, I've pretty much gotten used to it."

`"...So, how is it, working with someone like him?"

"Hard." He grinned ruefully. "He's a very difficult person to be around. But his mind is brilliant, and he's fiercely loyal, even if he acts like a robot sometimes. The way he can just glance at a crime scene and solve a case everyone else is stumped on. And it's exciting. The rush you get... I used to be a soldier, you know. I couldn't adjust to civilian life - I missed the war, so I joined Sherlock fighting the war in the streets." He glanced down and murmured quietly, "You never feel more alive than when you're risking death."

Her eyes were wide as saucers by this point, obviously impressed. "What sort of cases have you worked on?"

"Well, I can't really tell you..." Her beautiful face crumpled into heartbreaking pout. "...At least not in a public place like this," he quickly amended, not wanting to see her so sad.

"What if we head back to my place?" she suggested, looking at him from under her lashes and grinning wickedly.

John raised his eyebrows with a surprised smile. "I'm sure that'll do just fine." He stood up, wobbling a little (he hadn't drunk _that_ much, surely), and offered his hand.

Lydia giggled. "Quite the gentleman."

Quickly, he wrapped an arm around her waist. She laughed again as they left the bar, John (rather happily) feeling the burn of the jealous glares of several men in the bar.

"Here's my car," Lydia told him, fishing for her keys in the elegant red purse that matched the sleek vehicle before them (sans the artistic brown designs).

"Nice."

"Birthday present," she told him flippantly. "Daddy's little girl."

Finally locating her keys, she hopped into the front seat and strapped herself in. Shaking his head and grinning, John clambered in the passenger side. She barely waited for him to put his seatbelt on before she roared away from the curb.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"Why are we stopping?" John twisted in his seat. They were in the middle of a towering shopping district, no apartments or hotels to be seen.

"Just picking something up. You coming with?"

He nodded, unbuckling and stepping out of the car, following the clack of her silver heels on the pavement as she turned a corner, not even waiting for him. Her laughter echoed back to him. "Come on, John!"

Breaking into a light jog, he rounded the corner, but Lydia had disappeared. Her laughter echoed through the alley again. "Come _on_, John. Don't you want to go home with me?" He shook his head groggily, alcohol still fogging his senses, and increased his pace to a slightly stumbling run.

"Lydia?" he called as he rounded the corner. Sudden pain flared in his head, blood running from a gash in his forehead into his eyes. "What...?" He cast a bewildered glance at Lydia, who had rounded on him. Her purse was clutched in her right hand, blood (_his_ blood) dripping along its sharp silver edge, staining the fabric a darker red. With a sickening lurch, he realised the random brown pattern he had noticed on the purse before was dried blood.

"Sorry, John. You're a good guy, really, but orders are orders." Lydia pulled a stained cloth from inside the purse and wiped the blood from the wicked silver edge of the clasp. He wondered absently how long it had taken her to hone it to the point that it could be used as a weapon. The blood dripping into his eyes was making it hard to see, and he was still too shocked to react, or even strike back at her (though he doubted he'd be able to bring himself to hit a woman). "It was nice meeting you, and I wish the circumstances were different.

"Bye, John." She melted into the shadows.

Now he was more confused than ever. Why had she flirted with him, then led him into an alley, attacked him and left?

_What the _hell_ was going on?_

John pushed himself off the wall that he'd fallen against, wiping the worst of the blood away with his sleeve and then pressing it against the gash. It stung, but at least he could see. He staggered towards the alley entrance, not even sure where he'd go once he reached it. He had no clue where he was.

As it turned out, he never made it back to the street.

A tall man with short, dusty blonde hair in a crisp black suit seemed to materialise in front of him. "Dr. Watson. You're coming with us." The man's voice was low and modulated, his eyes unfathomable behind dark shades. His nose was slightly skewed about halfway down, like it had been broken, and his thin lips were set in a hard line.

"You're being a little cliché, you know," John informed him, forearm still pressed to the gash.

"We will use force if necessary to subdue you, though we hope it doesn't come to that," the man continued in that same calm voice.

"Who's 'we'?"

Two more men appeared silently, both black-haired, flanking the first man. They looked like twins. Both had the same straight nose, almond-shaped eyes and smooth olive skin. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This really was like a scene from a B-grade action movie.

_Well, time to be the hero_, he thought, and swung a punch.

It was a good swing, despite John being somewhat drunk. It connected solidly and the dusty blonde man fell back, clutching a (re)broken nose. John instinctively ducked, barely missing the hook thrown by the second man. John stepped to the side, head whipping around, searching for the other black-haired twin. The breath was suddenly forced from his body.

_Found him._

John choked and wheezed, struggling to draw oxygen into his lungs. The second man had straightened up from his initial overreach, and now swung at John again. John threw his arm up, but there were too many of them for his alcohol-addled senses to keep track of all at once and he was too late - the first man clocked him in the eye, knocking him to the ground. John's body twisted as he fell, landing heavily on his side. The three men crowded around him, but they didn't start beating him senseless like he'd expected. Rather, they pulled him to his knees, forced his hands behind his back and swiftly tied them. Blood began dripping into his eyes again.

They dragged him off the ground, one black-haired twin on each arm and the dusty blonde trailing behind. John kicked out desperately at the two black-haired men, but they easily avoided him. The blonde man cuffed him sharply on the back of the head, simultaneously sweeping John's legs out from under him. The motion jerked cruelly on John's arms, making him cry out. The dusty blonde hit him again, this time following up by forcing a ball gag into his mouth.

Inexorably, they dragged him towards the alley entrance, where Lydia's car was still waiting. The blonde got in the front seat, leaning forward for a kiss from her, but she rolled her eyes and pushed him away, frowning at John instead. "Did you have to give him a black eye?" she asked irritably, not taking her eyes off John.

"He broke my nose," he grumbled as they forced John into the car. "Besides, isn't that bloody gash on his forehead your handiwork?"

Lydia shrugged. "Yeah, but black eyes are unattractive. A cut like that is kinda sexy. Badass bad-boy style." Her brown eyes twinkled almost sadly at John, who was now wedged between Black Hair Twins Number One and Two. His hands were still tied behind his back, forcing him to lean forward against the seatbelt Number Two had been thoughtful enough to clip up for him.

"Not this again," Blonde Man muttered, sounding, more than anything, annoyed that Lydia was ignoring him in favour of John. "Just drive, you stupid woman."

She glared at him. "You sexist pig. And you wonder why I don't like you." Regardless, she started the car and it roared off down the road, a panel sliding up between the front seats and the back.

Adrenaline was coursing through John's system. Why had he been abducted like this? He almost snorted. Well, that was obvious enough. This clearly had something to do with Sherlock's top secret new case. But what? John cursed Mycroft for not telling him anything - he had no clue what these people wanted from him or even what he was up against.

John tried to peer covertly out the window, hoping to see some landmarks that would give him an indication where he was. The windows were heavily tinted, though, not even giving him as much as a vague change in blurred colour to separate the buildings from the sky. Black Hair One had noticed John's furtive glance, however, and despite none of them being able to see anything outside the car anyway, he pulled out a roll of cloth and a pistol. John's eyes were glued to the gun, straining against the seatbelt and his bonds. Black Hair Two nodded and shoved the bound doctor back towards One. The cloth strip was wound around his eyes, causing the tender flesh of his black eye to flare with pain. John whimpered into his ball gag. He flinched as the cold metal of the barrel rested against his forehead, his breath coming harshly and rapidly.

_They aren't going to shoot me, surely? That doesn't make any sense, why would they go to the trouble of putting me in the car if they were just going to kill me outright? It would've made more sense to kill me in the alley and make it look like a mugging gone wrong-_

The trigger clicked and released, displacing only air (and, thankfully, not John's brain). He sagged in his seat, weak with relief. He could almost _sense_ them smirking. But he didn't really care. They hadn't killed him.

At least, not yet.

Being blindfolded as he was, John had absolutely no warning when Black Hair One hit him with the butt of the pistol, sending him into a roaring black unconsciousness.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: D: John! What're you doing, getting beat up by a girl!

I'm so mean.

So, that's the first chapter, hope you enjoyed it (let me know via review, or by adding it to your favourites or your alerts). More shall be on its way very soon!


	2. Torture

A/N: Sorry I took a while to get this one out, I was just rather disappointed that almost a hundred people read my one-shot, Blood On the Pavement, but only one person deigned to review (and I'm rather shamelessly plugging it now, but oh well). I know this is story is on your alert list, so I'd like to say thank you to one Mojoflower for being that sole reviewer. This chapter's dedicated to you.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Groaning quietly, John slowly became aware of his surroundings. The heels of his shoes were in the process of being destroyed as he was dragged backwards over rough gravel. He tried to look around, but when he opened his eyes, he was still blindfolded. Somewhere along the way, though, he'd lost the ball gag (at least that was one less discomfort to deal with).

The crunch of feet on gravel changed abruptly to the slap of shoes on concrete, and John swore as the backs of his feet were slammed into the kerbstone.

"He's awake," one of the Black Hair twins commented (rather unnecessarily, in John's opinion). They swiftly changed their grip on John's arms so that he was forced to walk between them. "Come on, we've wasted enough time. Let's get him inside."

A wall of heated air hit them as they entered an unassuming office building. John, wearing his favourite jacket (comfortable and very warm), soon began to sweat. He heard flashing pulses of sound, presumably due to passing doorways at some speed. It sounded so _normal_ - rapidly clicking computer keys and mouses, the occasional landline call, low voices. Surely, if they just looked up, they'd notice John being dragged through the hallway and intervene somehow.

"Anyone, anyone at all in those rooms, could you please..." John's hesitant voice trailed off at the unpleasant sniggers of the men frogmarching him.

"There's no point in asking them for help, they're not going to be paying you any attention." The two men laughed as if at some private joke.

John stumbled suddenly, the fast pace and the blackened vision provided by his blindfold disrupting his usual balance. The twins just hauled him to his feet impatiently. Then, as he accidentally tripped again, they hoisted him up between them, his feet dangling several centimetres above the ground. No longer able to tell how far they were going, or even what turns they were taking, John felt very small.

Very small and very alone.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"How close is he, Dr. Watson?" The suave male voice purred through the speakerphone hunched in one corner of the ceiling.

"I honestly don't know. Mycroft told me to keep out of this one. Sherlock almost wasn't allowed in on it either." A hint of hysteria crept into his voice. "Please, I don't know, I don't know anything." John blinked in an (unsuccessful) effort to clear the blood that was once again running into his eyes from the wide gash on his forehead. His left eye was really beginning to swell now, too, making vision even more of a problem.

Not that there was much to see in the blank room anyway. Just the two-way microphone squatting like a fat spider in its corner, and a few ventilation shafts that were both too high and too small for John to escape through, even if his hands hadn't been bound behind his back. As it was, he simply crouched on his knees, the same position he had been forced into when they had pushed him into the room. He still hadn't figured out how they'd gotten him in there - there were no doors that he could see, no seams to suggest a hidden entrance. His captors had been carrying him off the ground, then had shoved him roughly to his knees, torn off his blindfold and left so quickly that in the few seconds he'd taken to recover, John had no idea _how_ they had left. All he'd heard was the grinding of gears, and he had been alone with the vents and the two-way microphone.

No, that wasn't quite right. Blonde Man was standing in the corner, face as impassive as the first time John had seen him. John resolutely turned around, staring straight at the wall in front of him.

"Dr Watson, we know of the... relationship between yourself and Mr Holmes. You can understand that we don't believe you when you say you know nothing."

John bit back a snort. He knew the urge to laugh was mostly due to the hysteria. "We're not a couple. But more importantly, _he hasn't told me anything._"

The voice sighed almost remorsefully. "Dr Watson, I regret to inform you we have alternative methods of gathering the information we require." John's gaze flickered involuntarily to Blonde Man's corner. The man on the microphone seemed to notice this (_there must be a camera built into the speaker or something_) and he added, with a slightly amused tone, "Quite. I heard you broke his nose, and I must say it does look quite discoloured, even from in here." Blonde Man scowled. "I'm sure he would just _love_ to repay the favour. He has quite a temper, you know." Blonde Man sauntered forward now, a rather unpleasant smile tugging at his lips.

"No lasting damage," the speaker voice warned him. "You know how she is."

Despite himself, John felt his breath coming more quickly. He sucked in a lungful of air, forcing himself to sit up ramrod straight and facing directly forward, not giving Blonde Man the satisfaction of seeing the terror in his eyes.

When he heard Blonde Man move suddenly behind him, though, he couldn't help but flinch. A scant second later, John was sent sprawling, his cheek scraping along the floor. "Get up," Blonde Man spat. John struggled back onto his knees, his movements made awkward by his bound hands. Blonde Man waited with his arms crossed, face expressionless. Slowly, John put one foot on the floor, then levered himself up, almost overbalancing. "My nose hurts," he told John mildly. "I think I'd be justified in getting some payback, don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he swung a right hook at John, hitting him squarely on the jaw. John reeled from the blow, twisting through almost one hundred and eighty degrees as he fell again. His whole jaw ached with the blow, compounded by its impact with the floor. Blonde Man hauled him to his feet and gave him a shove, forcing him to stumble forward a few steps. He turned warily to face his tormentor. "Now we're even." A nasty grin crept across his face. "And now, I'll have to owe you one. Or a lot."

With that, Blonde Man threw out a series of jabs at John's chest, hard enough to bruise the ribs beneath, but not enough to break them. John staggered back helplessly, unable to raise his arms to mount a defence. His only option was retreat. They were in a relatively small room, though, and he knew sooner rather than later, Blonde Man would have him backed into a corner. The assault was unrelenting, each blow designed to inflict the maximum amount of pain without leaving any lasting damage.

"Please, I don't..." John began, but trailed off at the other man's supercilious smirk.

"Oh no, Dr Watson! Don't even think for a second you can convince me that easily. We both know you know something you shouldn't. I'll even make you a deal - tell us everything you know about the progress of Mr Holmes' investigation, and we'll let you go right now. Though I hope that the loyalty you show towards him will make you refuse, because I'm really having a lot of fun."

"But I don't know anything!" The protest exploded out of him.

"Tsk, tsk," Blonde Man tutted at him, grinning wickedly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not nice to tell lies?" He cocked his head, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Although, this way I _do_ have more fun," he mused. "I suppose that's considerate enough, in its own way."

Breathing raggedly, John stared up at him. Like a small bird at a big snake. Not for the first time, John wished he wasn't so short - in situations like this, with the other man towering a good head above him, he felt incredibly insignificant and weak. "I don't know anything," he whispered brokenly.

"You keep telling yourself that," Blonde Man said, and threw him into the wall.

John's head connected with a solid crack, setting it roaring with agony. Groaning, he skidded slowly down the wall, a broad band of red in his wake. He slumped forward, doubting that he would have had the strength to stop himself hitting the ground even if his hands had been untied. His swollen eye blazed with pain as it was grated against the floor. Blood matted the back of his head, pain radiating from the point of impact.

"How much does Sherlock Holmes know?" he hissed.

"He hasn't told me anything," John muttered quietly. He grunted in pain as he was booted savagely in the stomach. Curling his legs into his chest in an instinctive motion, his head and upper back took the majority of the beating. The wound on the back of his head was attacked several times, and John doubted he'd have been able to see much if his eyes hadn't been scrunched closed in pain. Stars were dancing behind his eyelids, sending shafts of white hot agony through his battered skull. It was quite likely he had a concussion, as well as several bruised ribs. At this point, John only gave a weak moan when he was once again yanked to his feet.

Blonde Man seemed to be picking him up now for the express purpose of hurling him around. This time, he went with John, adding the weight of his forearm to John's neck as he hit the wall. John gasped desperately for air as his windpipe was crushed, stars flickering in his field of vision as a sheet of agony flared from the much-abused injury to the back of his head. He started to black out and he embraced the chance to sink into the blessed nothing of unconsciousness, but just then Blonde Man removed his arm from John's throat. Without his tormentor pressing him to the wall, John slid to the floor like a sack of bloodied potatoes. His chest heaved with breath after shuddering breath, and he ignored the ripping sensation of his bruised ribs grating against muscle in favour of restoring oxygen to his body.

"Time to get up, Dr Watson," he said cajolingly. John gave a slight whimper.

Blonde Man roughly rolled John onto his stomach. He set one foot firmly on John's lower back, grabbed his bound wrists and started to pull. "Now, Dr Watson, I'm sure I don't need to ask you again what we want from you. You can make this much easier on yourself if you just tell us."

"I don't know! I don't, I don't, I swear I don't! Please just stop it, stop, please, _I don't know ANYTHING!_" John screamed, the pain of his arms being slowly pulled from their sockets ricocheting through him. Blonde Man ignored him, steadily and inexorably increasing the tension on John's arms. John started sobbing. "Please, stop it, I honestly don't know what Sherlock's been doing..."

The speaker voice sighed in resignation. It was the most beautiful sound John had ever heard. "You can stop now. He's telling the truth - he really doesn't know anything." There was a brief pause. "How disappointing." Blonde Man stepped away from John, releasing the mounting pressure on his joints. John sighed blissfully, glad that he didn't have to add dislocation of limbs to the list of his numerous other injuries.

Gears squealed and protested as Blonde Man left the room. John just sagged with relief. He was in too much pain to roll over and see just _how_ to get in and out of the room.

"Are you sure?" There was a pause, and a murmur of a voice standing too far from the microphone for John to be able to pick out any words. "Well, that simplifies matters." Another pause. "Are we set?" The speaker voice continued. There were a series of thumps, and then an affirmative sound. "Good. Releasing toxin in 3, 2, 1..."

John stared up at the microphone-speaker in horror. "What?"

"Goodbye, Dr. Watson."

The faint crackle of the speaker went dead. Although nothing changed visually, John heard the menacing hiss of some unknown gas being released into the room.

No.

_Oh _God_ no._

They were going to kill him. Just because he didn't have the information they wanted.

_Dear_

_God_

_No._

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: Found my brow actually creasing in concern for John when I was writing this one. Hopefully it's not just hubris and you guys are getting emotional too. :P Review and let me know!

-pixie.


	3. Sense of Timing

A/N: *slightly spoilerish, I guess* Argh, Sherlock's so damn hard to write for. ): I know I didn't really get him right in this chapter, I apologise in advance for having him a little OOC. I guess I just have to get used to writing for a character like him (and of course I have to make it even more difficult for myself by having him going through an emotional-logical metamorphosis).

Although, saying Sherlock is in this chapter is hardly a spoiler, seeing as you'd know from the summary that he was going to turn up at some point anyway. Just avoiding any backlash. :P *end slightly non-spoilerish thing anyway*

Also, eleven reviews for the last chapter? *blushes* You guys spoil me, you really do.

-pixie.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

John held his breath, staving off the moment when he would have to inhale and accept the poison into his body. So he had a few minutes, if that.

_But what if the gas was a chemical that's absorbed through the skin?_

His heart rate accelerated rapidly, fuelled by his fear. He desperately tried to calm himself down, to slow the metabolising of oxygen within his system and prolong his life (if only for a few seconds). He went to take a few calming breaths but froze, remembering just in time breathing was what he was trying to avoid.

_"Ugh, breathing. Breathing's boring."_ Sherlock's voice suddenly rang through his head (he almost laughed, but that would have meant breathing). Well, breathing certainly wouldn't be boring now.

Stars were starting to dance in his field of vision. The gas stopped hissing into the room and the vents clicked shut. No clean air was coming in to replace the toxic atmosphere straining to get into John's lungs (which felt like they were about to burst). John started to count slowly, attempting to focus his mind. He just had to hold on for a few more seconds - surely Sherlock would turn up soon?

Of course he would. It was Sherlock. The man was almost a magician. He'd probably turn up just as John was about to take a breath of the poisoned air. He'd always had an incredible sense of dramatic timing. John almost wondered if Sherlock did it on purpose, and decided it was, in fact quite likely.

Now he was really starting to feel faint.

_Where's Sherlock?_

John knew that, really, it would be best to hold his breath until he fell unconscious - he'd breathe less then, so he'd take in less poisoned air.

_Where the bloody hell_ is _he?_

The edges of his vision started to go black.

_Why hasn't he come yet?_

None of this made any sense.

_What the hell happened to 'no lasting damage'? Last time I checked, death was pretty damned lasting!_

John tilted from his kneeling position to an ungraceful sideways slump, grunting as all his injuries protested.

_Enough with the dramatic timing Sherlock!_

He buried his mouth and nose against his shoulder in a desperate (_hopeless_) attempt to help filter the air he'd be breathing once he lost consciousness.

_Just hurry up and _get in here_ and rescue me!_

His head felt so heavy and so light at the same time.

_Oh God, I can't this up for much longer._

Despite himself, John heaved a huge breath into his stupid, starved lungs, wincing as the motion jostled his bruised ribs. He couldn't help but to do it again. And again.

_Stupid, stupid, STUPID._

Tears streamed from his eyes, dripping down into a mingled pool of blood and salty water that stuck his cheek to the floor.

_Oh God I've been poisoned it's already in my system now it's too late I'm going to die where the _bloody hell_ is Sherlock Holmes when you need him I can't believe this is actually happening oh God no I don't want to die oh God please let me live-_

Gears clanked and ground against each other. A panel opened up in the floor and Sherlock Holmes clambered out of it, not waiting for the elevator platform to deliver him into the room. John watched him emerge with a mild interest, his recent panic fading and dissipating into a glorious fog so he couldn't even remember why he'd been freaking out in the first place (it's in the floor - so _that's_ why I couldn't see any door seams, he thought idly).

"Too late, Sherlock," John grinned at him weirdly as the consulting detective rushed across the small room and began to drag him towards the panel. The space distorted, and Sherlock seemed both impossibly far away and much too close. "Already breathed it _all_ in." He giggled, high-pitched, leaning against Sherlock like a drunk (well, he was drunk, at least a little. God, that seemed like a year ago). Sherlock just tugged him forward and dropped him onto the slowly advancing elevator, one arm held against his face as he jumped through. "You're timing's off. I think you need to get it looked at." Sherlock ignored him again, rolling him from the platform to the ground, Sherlock sliding off and landing next to him. John didn't even feel the fall jarring his injuries. Even if he had, he was past caring, the drug swooping through his system eradicating such emotion.

The elevator clunked to a halt, then suddenly dropped, pause for a second or two at its base, then shot up once more to fill the gap in the floor of the room above.

It was quite clever, really, John mused. The elevator levelled with the floor in this room too, and lifted so slowly that someone standing on it blindfolded (like John had been) wouldn't even have realised they were moving. Then, once the elevator reached the top, his captors had just enough time to shove him to his knees before the elevator shot down a floor, and to jump off before it shot up again. John suspected that the system wasn't even operated by gears - at least, not loud, clunky ones, he would have felt the elevator vibrate if that were the case. No, more likely the clanking gears were an audio track meant to disguise the sound of the elevator floor panel shooting back into place.

A bit elaborate, just to confuse their victim, but still clever.

John wanted to admire the system a little longer, but Sherlock was persistently pulling him towards the door. His hands were still tied. He wished Sherlock would undo the bonds, but he seemed more focused on navigating through the labyrinthine hallways of the building they were trying to escape. Suddenly, his vision flared, his right leg went stiff and he heard gunshots and wounded soldiers screaming his name, crying for help, missing digits and limbs, mangled bodies, bloodied corpses, the enemy invading the camp, more gunfire, explosions, _oh God_, searing white pain, the troops driving out the rebels,_ I've been shot_, falling backwards onto a tent, _my shoulder's on fire_, fabric crumpling and tearing_,_ fleeing rebels, screams of pain everywhere, _including my own_, finally hitting the ground, roaring in agony as his shoulder was jolted, _somebody get a doctor,_ somehow managing to laugh at himself despite the injury, _oh wait-_

Pain crippled him, locked his muscles so it was like Sherlock was dragging a statue.

He'd become delirious, and that had protected him from the truth. But then his past had attacked him, somehow cleared his head again-

_Oh God I've been poisoned I'm going to die._

His muscles loosened enough to allow him to stumble along in front of Sherlock, to finally splutter, "Sher... Sherlock... I breathed it in, i-it was poisoned... They poisoned me!" John pulled frantically, weakly, at his friend's arm, wanting to grab him and shake him, but his damn hands were _still bloody tied_. "Oh God, Sherlock, I breathed too much, I'm going to d-"

"Don't be ridiculous, John." No emotion whatsoever, except a bit of condescension. This was Sherlock when John had first met him. He hadn't seen_ this_ Sherlock for months. He wanted the new one back."We don't know what gas or gases you breathed in. We can't possibly know if you'll live until we've got that figured out."

John wagged his head from side to side, happening to glance into an empty office room as they passed it.

_What the-_

People had been here when he'd been brought in. He'd heard their quiet murmurs, the rapid clacking of computer keys, even if he hadn't been able to see them. Where had they all gone?

_How the hell had Sherlock pulled off this one?_

Sherlock's back had been stiff as a board, but once they finally emerged from the building his shoulders drooped and they both slumped against the wall. No longer able to remain his usual, unemotional self, he cast a sad glance at John.

What was with these _feelings_? There was no _benefit_ to them, he felt terrible that he hadn't saved John in time and there was no _need_ to really - except _John was his friend_.

The logical (and dominant) part of Sherlock's mind told him he was upset because John being poisoned meant he'd lost, but that didn't seem right. He looked again at the ex-army doctor, who was just staring vacantly back at him, pupils massively dilated. His sudden moment of lucidity had fled, leaving him in the hallucinogenic clutches of the drug in his system.

Having John around had changed Sherlock, and he still wasn't entirely sure whether he liked it or not. (All these _feelings_... Really, what _was_ the point?) Sherlock had functioned brilliantly as a being of pure logic. Sure, John was an excellent conductor of his logic, but having feelings was a rather undesired side effect.

...Wasn't it?

He wasn't even sure anymore. He only knew that he was no longer just a purely logical being (machine). For the first time in his life, he'd started to become _human_. And that meant actually living.

Sherlock bowed his head. "I'm sorry, John."

John's eyes flickered with recognition for a moment, and he reached out to Sherlock. He'd been poisoned, he needed to tell Sherlock, have him find out what it was, but suddenly it was just all too much. He fell into a roaring, silent nothingness.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"We have to go to Bart's. They'll figure out what I was gassed with, give me the antidote, and I'll be right as rain in a couple of days." John had woken up a few minutes earlier, at first confused to find himself on the couch at 221B, swathed in bandages. After the bout of delirium set off in the interrogation room, though, John had made a complete recovery to lucidity (although physically, he was far from being himself. It would take a while to recuperate his strength, and for the cuts and bruises to fade).

Sherlock shook his head, pacing back and forth. "No. Too dangerous. They'll be watching the hospital; they'll get into your room and make sure they finish the job."

"No, Sherlock, they won't. They know how you think. Can't you see they're just trying to distract you from catching them before they flee the country? I'm not going to let you let them get away."

The rapid thud of feet continued. "They're ruthless, John. If I hadn't gotten you out when I did, you'd already be dead." He cast John a slightly condescending glare. "Really, you should know better than that by now."

"You don't know th-"

"I'm not going let my only friend die because of a _case_, John!" Sherlock rounded on him, his frustration roused to breaking point. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Sherlock went back to his pacing.

John cleared his throat, touched by Sherlock's concern, but still believing the consulting detective was overreacting just a little. "I know it's a risky, but we need to get me to a hospital. We can talk to Lestrade if they want to keep me overnight, or even Mycroft, but we've got to find out what's wrong with me."

Sherlock waved his hand indifferently. "We'll send a blood sample to Molly. She's got a good scientific mind, for someone who's not me. It's fairly likely she'll be of some assistance. Better than the other useless people they employ."

"You exploit Molly far too much already. Sherlock, I'm going to Bart's, and I'm not letting you stop me." John staggered to his feet, groped his way along the wall for support, and dragged himself towards the door. Swift as a striking snake, Sherlock launched himself across the coffee table, slamming John back onto the couch.

"I am _not_ letting you leave this apartment, even if it means I have to nurse you back to health myself," he hissed, green eyes cold and narrowed to slits, right forearm pressed lightly but securely against John's throat (of course only lightly - Sherlock had noticed the slight bruising pattern where John had at some point been pressed to a wall by his throat). John cried out as the impact jolted his bruised ribs, but was otherwise silent, too shocked to formulate a response.

"You, with your chivalrous and _stupid_ notions of 'catching the bad guys' despite any personal cost, are going to _get yourself killed_." Sherlock continued to berate him. "I know several forms of boxing and martial arts, and I am coming _increasingly_ close to having to employ some of those methods on you. And if it_ does_ come to that, don't think for one _second_ that I won't knock you unconscious if I have to. _Do we have an understanding_?"

Lying on the couch and completely at Sherlock's mercy, John nodded mutely. Real fear flashed in his eyes at the aggressiveness of Sherlock's attack - both the physical and the verbal components. He knew Sherlock just had his best interests at heart (or at mind, probably, because Sherlock's heart seemed to be a rather inactive organ aside from its biological purposes) but the threat of violence was certainly something that he had never used against John before. John had often wondered what it would take to get Sherlock truly angry, but now decided it really was best that he didn't know.

That almost feline ferocity faded from Sherlock now (and really, he had pounced on John like a cat) and he gracefully returned to a standing position, leaving John to recover as he straightened his clothes.

"I'll go get Molly then, shall I?" he said finally. "Wait here. I'll close the curtains for you. _Don't_ leave the flat." Sherlock strode across the room, dimming it as he drew the fabric across the windows. "Stay here," he repeated, and the corner of his mouth flicked upwards. "Doctor's orders."

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: Sorry if this chapter is a little disjointed and confusing (I promise I'll explain in a later chapter), but that's the first time I've written for a character really just going crazy. And let me tell you, it was _fun_.

I know I'm sadistic, but John being tortured and delirious was seriously a LOT of fun to write. Hell, I just love beating up characters... Especially ones that aren't my own (beating up my own characters isn't nearly as fun. I created them, so it's almost like beating up a part of myself...

...Shut up. My logic's weird, okay? Don't judge me).

Please review and let me know if I should continue!

-pixie.


	4. Visitors and Arguments

Sherlock had locked the door behind him - of course, John had checked as soon as Sherlock had left. And he had taken John's keys along with his own. Mrs Hudson, John knew, was out of town for the rest of the day, so he couldn't call out to her for help. No doubt Sherlock would have managed to convince her to not let him out even if she had been home. John sighed and laboriously started to make his way to his room, feeling free to wince and swear quite vociferously when he jolted anything exceedingly painful now that there was no one around. The rate at which he was already beginning to weaken alarmed him. Still, with nothing else to do, John knew it was best to try and sleep off some of the effects of whatever poison his heart was pumping through his body.

He almost didn't make it to the bed. As it was, he simply collapsed on top of the doona and instantly fell asleep. The last thought he had was how Sherlock was going to give Molly a blood sample when he hadn't taken any of John's blood...

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"Taxi!" Sherlock raised one hand, dragging the other through his curly locks. He didn't actually need to go to Molly - he'd already dropped by when John was unconscious, letting her do a blood test and bandage John up (_Really, John didn't think_ Sherlock_ had performed first aid on him?_). Instead, he was going... He didn't really know where.

Somewhere that wasn't 221B. He clambered into the back of the taxi pulling up to the kerb, barely waiting for it to stop.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked in a bored drawl.

"Doesn't matter. Just go."

The cabbie turned and gave him an odd look. "You alright, mate?"

"Hm? Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock replied distractedly, pulling his feet up and rocking back and forth slightly.

"You sure?" The cabbie asked doubtfully. Then, more heatedly, added, "Hey, you can't have your feet up on the seat like that! That's a finable offence, you know." He was seriously regretting picking up this fare.

"My feet aren't even on the seat, they're on my coat," Sherlock told him absently. "Now will you go?"

"You still haven't told me where," the cabbie replied, clearly disgruntled.

"St. Bart's," Sherlock decided, figuring he could talk to Molly and see if she'd made some progress.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"Sherlock, the test will take at least twenty-four hours, I'm bending the rules as it is, I already told you that..."

He stared at her pitifully and her shoulders slumped. "I can't make it go any faster. I would if I could, I know how much John means to you. But I can't. I'll call you as soon as it's done, I promise." He didn't move. "Sherlock, there's nothing I can do!" she said desperately.

Without another word, Sherlock turned around and stalked out of the hospital.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

John regained consciousness sluggishly, eyelids gummed together with sleep. Groaning, he arched his back, his spine popping and his bruised ribs twinging in protest. He quickly laid flat once more. He ran his tongue over his lips a few times, grimacing at the taste of morning breath. He went to rub away the grime in the corners of his eyes, but when he lifted his hand to do so, he barely recognised the pallid, trembling appendage. And was it just him, or was his whole arm _thinner_? Surely the toxin couldn't be affecting him that much already!

Suddenly, he was snapped from his panic, his nose twitching as he smelt something delicious wafting from the kitchen. _Mrs Hudson must be making something for me_, he thought happily, forcing away his worry at his rapidly deteriorating state. Having not eaten since lunch the previous day, John's stomach was loudly protesting its emptiness. He scrubbed quickly at his eyes, his arm flopping weakly back onto the bedcovers. It was then he registered that he was lying on his back, under numerous blankets.

But he had fallen asleep on top of his doona. So how had he ended up tucked in like this? Had _Sherlock_ done it? _Oh God, he's actually serious about taking care of me._

Footsteps padded softly towards John's room, but they weren't the quick patter of Mrs Hudson's feet. John frowned. It almost sounded like _Sherlock_-

"Good morning, John. I made you soup." He nodded his head to the steaming bowl he had cupped in his hands.

John's mouth fell open. "You made soup."

"Yes, I just said that."

"You can _cook_?" John was stupefied. Sherlock ignored him, pulling out a chair and placing the bowl on John's beside table. John's room was sparse, military (of course). The only other piece of furniture, beside the bed he was lying on, was his closet, tucked neatly against the far wall.

He lifted a spoonful of soup towards John's mouth, but stopped at the bed-ridden doctor's sullen glare. "I'm sick, Sherlock, not an invalid. Give me the spoon." He lifted his pale, sweating hand from on top the bedcovers, reaching for the utensil with quivering fingers. "So cold," he muttered absent-mindedly, shivering despite the pile of blankets smothering him. Almost as soon as his fingers curled around the spoon, his whole body spasmed and the soup spattered downwards, the spoon clattering on the floorboards, his arm limply trailing after them. "Shit." He sighed. "Sorry, Sherlock." Trying to draw his hand back underneath the mounded blankets (which, quite frankly, were doing nothing to warm him), John was alarmed to find that his fingers merely twitched, his muscles now too weak to even move_. How is it even possible that I'm getting so bad, so quickly? _Wordlessly, Sherlock picked up the spoon and went to put it back in the bowl. "What are you doing? You realise how unhygienic that is? I'm already sick, the last thing my immune system needs to cope with now is more germs!"

Some slight strength had returned to John's voice, some slight colour to his cheeks, as he berated Sherlock. He even managed, with a bit of a struggle, to prop himself up on his elbows. Suddenly, though, as if someone had flipped a switch, it all drained away, leaving him as white as the sheets he lay under. This outburst, however small, had cost him.

Glancing down at the metal utensil, Sherlock wiped it on his pant leg, ignoring the stain it left, just as he ignored the one on the floor. He set it and the bowl on John's bedside table, gingerly lifting the doctor's drooping arm and tucking it back under the sheets. Then, he scooped up another spoonful of soup. John let his head fall to one side, facing away from Sherlock. "I'm not hungry," he croaked dourly, almost childishly. And indeed, the prospect of food, only a few minutes ago so appealing, was now abhorrent to him.

"John, you're not like me. Over the years, I've honed myself, trained myself to the point where I can easily sustain normal function with minimal nutritious input. I throw myself into my work, feeding my mind rather than my body. That's all the sustenance I need. I'm a man of the mind, but you're a man of the body. Not only that, you're ill. Consumption of food is necessary in order to maintain metabolic processes, to keep yourself _strong_, strong enough to fight what's in your system." His voice, initially earnest, suddenly cracked. Damn those _feelings_. Where did they keep_ coming_ from?"...Please, John. Take the spoon."

No amount of pleading from anyone else could have convinced John to eat. But hearing Sherlock Holmes say please meant so much more than when anyone else said it. So John allowed himself to be spoon-fed the soup, resenting the small size of the portions Sherlock had to deliver because John's throat muscles couldn't cope with anything larger.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

The rest of the day progressed in a similar fashion - Sherlock would give John periodic doses of soup, as well as a foul-tasting concoction designed to help him sweat out the toxin (as if he hadn't been sweating enough already). Sweating made the numerous bandages he was draped with sticky, and the skin underneath became unbearably itchy. As soon as each wound healed to the point where a bandage was no longer necessary - which would take far longer than it normally would, as his body was more focused on fighting the poison in his system - it would be removed, providing a (temporary) sense of relief.

John marvelled that Sherlock hadn't yet grown bored of taking care of him, and was also exceedingly grateful of the fact. True, it had only been one day, but he had seen the man abandon a project in a matter of seconds because it wasn't intellectually stimulating.

Sherlock had actually left Baker Street a few minutes prior, to restock their almost perpetual lack of food. So John was surprised to hear the protesting creak of feet on the stairs. He knew it wasn't Sherlock, because he'd only just left (and besides, Sherlock _never_ made those stairs creak). Mrs Hudson, then? No, it couldn't be, she was still in town...

John's fevered blood ran cold.

There was someone else in the apartment.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Sherlock drummed impatiently on the window frame of the back seat of his cab. Shopping had taken him far longer than he'd expected. He wasn't sure how John always managed it so quickly (really, was there any _need_ for the supermarket to stock seven types of the same beans? It was just ridiculous). He sighed and fidgeted when the taxi ground to a halt at a red light. It was only because he needed more food for John that he'd left 221B at all - he was far too paranoid that someone would attempt to finish what the poison had started.

As he clambered out of the cab, shopping bags in his hands, he felt a foreboding sense of premonition.

The front door of 221B was ever so slightly ajar.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs three at a time, carelessly scattering the groceries at the bottom step. "John!" he called, bursting into the apartment. Not waiting for a response, he raced into John's room, where he found John and Mycroft locked in an angry staring competition. Sherlock recovered himself with incredible speed. "Mycroft," he said coolly. "I was wondering when you'd turn up. You're losing your touch - you took longer than I expected."

Mycroft rounded furiously on his brother, ignoring his snide comment. "How could you let him get involved? I _specifically _told you _not to get him involved!_" Small flecks of spittle were splattering from his lips. Sherlock exaggeratedly wiped at the side of his face.

"I didn't get him involved. If anything, he got _himself_ involved." Sherlock inspected his nails, no evidence of his earlier frantic dash present in his expression.

Mycroft turned to glare again at the ex-army doctor. John had never seen him so angry, so discomposed. Still, it seemed unfair to have that fury directed at him. "It's not like I _asked_ to be kidnapped, beaten up and poisoned," John told him mildly, arms crossed on his blankets.

The slightly crazed look still flickered in Mycroft's eyes, but he was at least making a visible effort to get himself under control. He managed the facsimile of a smile. "Apologies." He returned his attention to his younger brother. "Well, this will certainly make your task more… challenging."

"Will it? Up until John being kidnapped, it's been rather dull." Sherlock looked more bored than ever as he took a seat.

"You _know_ why," Mycroft retorted.

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. Please, enlighten me," he replied innocently.

Mycroft's eyes flickered involuntarily to the bedridden doctor. "Sherlock, for _God's sake_, you _know _that I won't say anything in front of John! Stop being so childish. You're wasting my time - and you are no doubt aware of how precious it is. Will you continue with the case?"

"Of course not. Someone needs to take care of John."

"Sherlock, just let me go to the hospital, I swear I'll be fine," John complained.

Mycroft's lips compressed into a thin, hard line. "Let me rephrase, Sherlock. _You will_ continue the case."

Slowly, Sherlock rose from his seat and drew himself to his full height, glaring up at his older brother with his pale green eyes. "No, let _me_ rephrase. _I_ need to take care of John."

"Sherlock, I'm touched, it does mean a lot what you're offering, but I really should just go to the hosp-"

"You have no medical training whatsoever, _dear brother_," Mycroft countered, completely ignoring John. "What makes you think he wouldn't be better off in the hands of a professional?"

"Far less likely that he'll be killed, for one."

His brother's eyebrows were raised, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that could almost be called a smile. "Ah, but if you_… care_ for him,is it less likely that he'll die?"

John felt a thrill of horror course through his body as Sherlock stayed silent.

"I rather thought so."

"I'm not continuing the case. Do your own legwork for a change."

"One life is not worth risking-"

"_It is to me!_" Sherlock roared suddenly, then thrust both fists in Mycroft's face. "Go on, then, _arrest me_. Isn't that what you said you'd do? Of course, that still means I'll be off the case anyway, even though I don't get to do what I want. But that's how you've always _been_, hasn't it? If you can't have _your_ fun, _no one_ can. You have to be queen of the castle."

He dropped his hands at the slow, sad shake of his brother's head. "You're making a mistake, you know," Mycroft murmured softly. "But that's how you've always been, hasn't it? Always convinced you're _right_." His umbrella clunked against the floor as he turned to leave, but he stopped at the door and spoke over his shoulder. "You're not this time, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes brother just bowed mockingly. "Your majesty."

"Why are you doing this?" John asked him once the front door had clicked shut. "I know it's not just to piss off Mycroft, you just need to talk to him to do that."

Sherlock shrugged. "Talking's predictable. Boring. I thought I'd try something new." He grinned. "I'd say it worked fairly spectacularly, wouldn't you?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, just go back to the case already! I'll be fine in the hospital, I promise."

"Don't make a promise you can't keep," Sherlock muttered, his smile fading.

"Then why not let Mrs Hudson take care of me?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked again. "Because she's not our housekeeper."

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: I have no clue if having your feet up in a taxi is a finable offence in England or not, but it is on trains in Australia, and I'm too lazy to look it up. :P

Also, longest chapter, almost 2,500 words! :D More words should mean more reviews, right? *cough cough*

On another note, I start back at school tomorrow, and I have my trail HSC in less than two weeks (D:!), and I've kinda been procrastinating on studying for that with fanfiction. As a result, updates will be further apart from now on, sorry. I'll try to have an update at least once or twice a week.

Until we meet again,

-pixie.


	5. Boredom

A/N: My HSC Trials start next week, but the first exam block will be finished by next Friday, so look forward to an update then. :)

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Being as utterly unable to move as he was, John's other senses seemed far more sensitive than usual, like they were compensating. He could hear Molly's worried voice tumbling through the phone's speaker, even though Sherlock was in the next room.

_"I've run every test there is, Sherlock, and I've rerun them. I can't find anything out of the ordinary, it all matches up to the blood taken when he donated last week. There are so many natural poisons that the tests just won't pick up. Not to mention there's some compounds, synthesised ones - really expensive - that can escape detection through breakdown processes that occur once the body's been poisoned, but... It's impossible to know which. And it's not like I have the resources to be able to test them all. _Molly let out a shaky half sob, half bitter laugh. _There's thousands - maybe even tens or hundreds of thousands - of possibilities, and that's just known poisons. I could try, but it would be worse than looking for a needle in a haystack._"

There was silence on both ends of the call.

_Sherlo-_

Sherlock savagely stabbed his thumb at the 'end call' button. John heard the soft thump of the mobile being flung onto his armchair, and the louder one of Sherlock flopping down into his own. Quiet strains of music drifted from Sherlock's violin as he began to play, a sad, haunting tune.

John felt numb. And it wasn't just the not being able to move. That was a different kind of numb.

He was still dying.

Sherlock hadn't saved him in time.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Despite Sherlock constantly plying him with soup - it was the only thing John could stomach without being shamefully and violently sick - he was wasting away. His face, once healthy and full, was now almost thinner than Sherlock's, and even paler, aside from the black eye that was taking forever to fade. His hands were twisted knots of bone, vein and flesh, and when he wasn't covered by sheets - which _still_ seemed to do nothing to keep him warm - his ribs showed painfully thin through his clothes and bandages. The only time he could even move without extreme effort was when he was in the grip of periodic bouts of delirium, which always drained what little energy he managed to regain.

He hated it.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"Sherlock, look out!"

"John, it's quite alright-"

"No, it is _not_! Sherlock, run!" He twisted frantically under his blankets, unable to get up. "Don't stay for me, there's no point!"

"There's nothing he-"

"_They're going to get you!_" John bawled, tears streaming down his cheeks as he lost the war with his bedding.

Sherlock hovered at the foot of John's bed, distressed. John had been hallucinating for several minutes now. It would have been scientifically interesting for him to observe if it had been anyone else; instead, Sherlock was extremely disturbed. He had no idea what to do. _What were you thinking, saying you'd take care of him? Mycroft was right_, he thought bitterly. _You_ aren't _equipped to deal with this._

Hesitantly, he sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to reach out to his friend to reassure him that there really was no danger. John thrashed about hysterically, swiping Sherlock across the face. "_Get away! Leave us alone! Don't hurt Sherlock!"_

He recoiled, bringing a hand up to his cheek. The blow itself had been weak, ineffectual; rather, Sherlock was reacting to the fact that John thought that he was the aggressor in this latest hallucination. "John, stop." Sherlock pinned down John's flailing arms. "No one's trying to hurt you, no one's trying to hurt _me_."

"No, no, no…" John sobbed, his head rolling limply from side to side.

More sternly now, Sherlock told him, "John, stop it. You're hallucinating. The poison in your system is impairing your cognitive processes." A little more desperate. "Look at me, keep your eyes on me. There is no danger."

John just stared at him. Stared right through him.

"Please, John." Sherlock's voice cracked.

"Hoo, hoo." Mrs Hudson entered the room, carrying in a tea tray. "Heard John yelling from downstairs," she whispered, casting a worried glance at the stricken doctor. "Thought I'd bring up some chamomile tea, help calm him down. Does wonders for my sleeping in the winter, the cold always makes my hip play up, but the tea always helps." Sherlock nodded distractedly, indicating with a jerk of his head that she could approach. His hands were still keeping John's from lashing out.

Bit by bit, Mrs Hudson force-fed John the tea, cupping his chin so that he was forced to swallow. His arms quivered and strained, but Sherlock kept him from jerking out and spraying tea everywhere, one arm trapping John against the headrest, the other restraining his arms. A stray drip of tea trickled from John's mouth, tracing its way down his chin. Mrs Hudson tipped his head back further, and a miserable John convulsively swallowed the last of the tea.

"I've been poisoned again." John told Sherlock dully, his eyes dilated with fear so much that almost none of their blue could be seen.

Mrs Hudson set the empty cup in the soup bowl sitting on John's bedside table. "I used to be a nurse, you know, until my hip stopped me from being able to stand up for hours on end." Sherlock couldn't bring himself to berate her for her nattering. He knew it was her method of coping with stressful situations, even if it did grate on his nerves - and he'd only have to glance at her to be able to tell that she'd worked in a high-end hospital for a number of years during the '80s. "I've dealt with my fair share of delirious patients. He'll be alright, though, won't he, Sherlock?"

The words stuck in his throat as he slumped into his chair. "...I don't know."

She cast a worried glance first at Sherlock, then at John.

"They're hurting you, Sherlock," John whimpered pitifully. "I couldn't stop them… 'm sorry…" His eyelids drooped closed, tensed limbs slackening as he finally surrendered to the realm of unconsciousness.

Mrs Hudson and Sherlock stared down at his shrunken, inert form.

"What's going to happen to him?" she asked quietly.

"The... the delirium will come in increasing and prolonged fits, if they follow the same pattern," Sherlock replied distractedly. "Most likely, he'll eventually slip into a comatose state and then..." He trailed off, as saying the words would be too painful and the implication was obvious enough.

She let out a small whimper, her hand pressed against her trembling lips. "I-I'll go and check how much I have left of my chamomile tea," she said, voice wobbling. "The satchel seemed rather empty when I was making John's cuppa just now, I might have to buy some new." With that, she padded out of the room, surreptitiously wiping at her eyes.

Sherlock gazed at John's face for a few moments. Even in unconsciousness, pain and worry carved deep lines on his forehead and around his mouth.

_Bored_, Sherlock thought.

His eyes widened. _No. You can't let this happen_.

Clutching his hair, he stood quickly, his chair toppling over. He couldn't allow himself to get bored, he just _couldn't_. He needed to take care of John.

_Violin_.

He raced into the next room, picking up the instrument. But when he put the bow to the strings, for the first time that he could recall, his mind came to a blank.

_Bored, bored, BORED._

Throwing the violin carelessly onto his armchair, he tore out of the apartment, nearly crashing into Mrs Hudson as he bounded recklessly down the stairs.

"Oh, sorry, love. Are you alright?"

"No. Take care of John for a bit, I need... I need a distraction." With that, he brushed past her and left 221B.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

It was several hours before Sherlock returned to the flat, far calmer than when he had left. Mrs Hudson never found out where he had gone, but it wasn't for lack of trying. She asked him on several occasions, and his reply was always the same: it was best she didn't know.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"I still can't believe I've been poisoned," John mumbled. Sherlock said nothing. "I survive the war, and then I get poisoned." He laughed, a faint, humourless sound. "I think about it a lot. The war."

"Yes, I know. A fair number of your hallucinations revolve around your wartime experiences."

John looked down, seeing his painfully thin hands splayed on the counterpane. Not wanting to be reminded of his body's pitiful physical state, he met Sherlock's gaze.

"Are they getting worse?" He could never remember anything that he had thought was going on in a hallucination once he had reached lucidity. Only the deeply unsettling sense that something was very wrong remained.

"Yes, they are."

He nodded to himself a few times. "...What else do I... What sort of things do I say?"

"Your hallucinations about the war seem to be invariably about your injury." John nodded again. That made sense; it had certainly been one of the more traumatising experiences in his time abroad. "Other times, you think that we're both in danger, and you offer to sacrifice yourself so that I can get away. I suspect a few of these are flashbacks to the pool. There have been a few instances where you've made what I assume were allusions to what happened in the lab at Baskerville. You mentioned something about 'spirits', once. The rest is indecipherable nonsense."

"...Huh." John replied eventually, unable to find the words to formulate an adequate response.

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for several moments before Sherlock drew a sharp breath and stood. "Well, the day's getting on, I'd better go make some more soup."

"Oh, yes, of course, please do," John said, talking over the end of Sherlock's sentence and only slightly babbling. A few more uncomfortable seconds ticked by as Sherlock hovered in the doorway.

"...I don't think I've said this yet, Sherlock, but... Thank you, for doing this, for taking care of me. I really do appreciate it."

Sherlock cast him the flicker of a smile. "Well, taking care of someone in a time of need... That's what friends are for, apparently."

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Days passed, and John's condition continued to worsen. Most of his time was spent sleeping, long periods of unconsciousness that varied from the listless tossing of fevered dreams to a coma-like stillness. John's moments of clarity grew increasingly sparse, and were almost always clouded with depression. He felt responsible for his body's inability to expel the toxin, as if it was a physical weakness that was reflecting poorly on his character. He was also becoming very lethargic in these moments that he was awake and aware. Every time he blinked, it was a gargantuan effort just to lift his eyelids again.

It reached a point where the hours John spent asleep were almost double those he was awake. Sherlock was forced to feed him at times when he was still unconscious, as it was almost impossible to rouse him when his body decided it was time for rest.

One such time, after having spent the previous half-hour slowly dribbling soup down John's throat, John suddenly lurched from his deceptively peaceful slumber, making Sherlock jump. Eyes wild, he clutched Sherlock's arm, nails digging in.

"The spirits have her," he rambled earnestly. "They take her away, hide her away; she'll be gone for days, weeks, never there, always spirits, spirits instead." Sherlock tried to drag his arm free, but John's grip was like a vice. In the part of his brain that had recovered from the suddenness of John's waking, he wondering how taxing this episode would be on his friend's already depleted strength. "She's tried to stop, but she can't help herself, the spirits are too strong, she'll go back under, I don't like it, she doesn't really try to give it up, she says she does, but she's lying, she needs help…" His words slurred like a drunk's as he quickly slipped back into unconsciousness. He mumbled something else (Sherlock thought it might have been 'hurry') and went under.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: Mostly pulled that sciencey stuff at the beginning out of my ass. Oh, and a warning – those who were expecting a scientifically accurate illness for John, I'll have to disappoint you. All the symptoms of the poison were whatever I felt fit the story (I doubt I'll even name the drug). But that's one of the things I love about fanfiction - you can just make shit up. I do hope it seems viable though. :)

-pixie.


	6. Issues With Alcoholism

"Sherlock, a woman named Harry's here for John."

He glanced at Mrs Hudson irritably, standing up and putting down the spoon he'd been trying to force into John's slack mouth.

"His sister," she clarified.

"What's _she_ doing here?"

"Said John posted about being sick in his blog a half hour ago. She hopped in a cab right away to come see him." Sherlock scowled, making a mental note to confiscate John's laptop as well as his phone. Not five minutes ago Lestrade had received a distressed call from John saying that "men in black suits" were invading the apartment, but couldn't tell him why - he insisted "Mycroft knows". It was only because Lestrade had known Sherlock had been on a top secret case before John had become ill that he thought to call the consulting detective, who had promptly abandoned the soup he'd been making to snatch John's phone from him.

"I suppose she'll have to come in then, won't she?"

"Yeah, I will." A dishevelled blonde, even shorter than John but just as stocky, stood in the doorway, her arms folded over a too-big grey shirt. She was in her late twenties, but her alcoholism made her look almost a decade older. Her stance was slightly lopsided and bags hung under her grey eyes, eyes that softened with concern as she saw her brother lying in his bed. He looked smaller than ever with his withering arms lying on his stacked counterpane. By this point, John had healed enough that he no longer required any bandages, and his black eye had faded enough that Harry didn't even notice it. "Oh, John," she murmured, wobbling slightly as she crossed over to the bed. Sherlock's sensitive nose wrinkled in distaste. She'd been drinking on her way to Baker Street.

Slowly, she sunk into Sherlock's chair, grasping desperately at her big brother's emaciated hand like it was a lifeline. He stirred at her touch, blinking slowly, as if the low lighting in his room was painful. "Hey, John," Harry gave him a watery smile. "How're you feeling?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _How mundane_.

John looked at her blankly, then his nostrils flared and his pupils dilated. "The spirits have you," he said, angry and sad at the same time. "You say you'll stop them, but you never do." Tears leaked out from the corners of his closed eyes. "You never do."

"...What?" Harry turned to Sherlock, confusion in her brimming eyes. "What's he on about?"

"You." Sherlock replied, staring down at John. "He's been slipping in and out of delirium for days, always going on about 'spirits taking her away'. I'd thought that he was talking about his mother's depression and suicide after his father abandoned the family," he continued, not even noticing the way Harry's spine stiffened and her hands' clenched over John's. Her brother whimpered, but said nothing. "But saying that you won't stop the 'spirits' is a rather obvious reference to your alcoholism." Harry let out a strangled sob. "I can believe I didn't figure that out earlier," he said to himself.

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry," she wept. "You left for the war, I got so worried and I didn't know what to do! You'd always been there for me, but then I'd wake up every morning worrying you'd been killed... When you got shot, oh God, I couldn't help it, honestly I couldn't…"

Sherlock stood back a little, uncomfortable with any outburst of female emotion, even from one he had so instantly despised.

John was roused once more, and although he did recognise Harry straight away, he was still delirious. "Why do you let them do it, Harry? The spirits are bad, they really are," he said earnestly, tears clouding his blue eyes.

"She's not going to let the spirits take her away anymore," Sherlock reassured him, glancing sharply at Harry.

"I won't, John, I'll stop. I swear I'll stop, just get better."

"Promise?"

"Yes, yes, I promise!" she sniffled, clutching John's hand. "You get better, I'll stay off the booze, I promise."

John nodded to himself. "I'll get better, then." His eyes drifted closed, head sagging to one side. Harry let out an involuntary cry.

"He's just sleeping."

"I know, I know, it's just… will he get well soon?" She plucked anxiously at one of the numerous holes in her faded jeans.

Sherlock regarded her impassively. "Will you stop being an alcoholic?"

She laughed shakily, wiping the tears from her eyes. "If I thought it'd help…"

"I do."

Harry straightened out her rumpled shirt, tucking her short, messy hair behind her ears. She sat there as the silence grew uncomfortable, unsure what to do.

"John's soup is getting cold," he suggested finally, more to get her to leave than anything.

"Right, of course," she stood abruptly, clearly flustered, and headed to the door.

"Will you? Stop drinking?" Sherlock inquired, green eyes searching grey. The inquiry wasn't out of concern for her wellbeing. It was more that he didn't want to have his nose clogged with the stench of liquor every time she visited (which he suspected would become a regular occurrence).

Her lips compressed in a thin, determined line. "I will, Mr Holmes. If it makes John happy, I'll go cold turkey."

Sherlock took a quick glance. All the indicators that she was telling the truth were there, and for John's sake, he hoped she would go through with it. He picked up the soup spoon as she left. "Come on, John, it's just a few sips, surely you can manage to wake up for that…"

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"Sherlock, would you just listen?" Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know that sometimes, you like to leave your consultancy for days or weeks at a time because you've got something 'more interesting' going on, but John was not okay when he called me earlier. He sounded like someone needed to buy him a one-way ticket to Crazy Town. What's going on? Why haven't you sent him to a hospital, for God's sake?"

"_It's too dangerous_."

"Too dangerous?" Lestrade cast his eyes wildly about his office. "I was only on the phone with him for a few seconds, and it was clear to me he needs psychiatric help!"

"_I'm taking care of him."_

Lestrade repeated this disbelievingly. "Sherlock, I know you're a genius - no one could ever contest that, even if you did give them a chance - but dealing with someone mentally ill is not exactly your area of expertise! You need to take him to a specialist."

"_I said, I'm taking care of him."_

"Sherlock-" Lestrade sighed as the phone went dead, rubbing a hand over his face_. Well, he's definitely left us out in the cold now. _He smiled grimly. _Guess we'll just have to do our jobs the way we're supposed to._

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"Harry?" John slurred incredulously. "What're you doing here?"

Harry clasped her hands eagerly in front of her. "I'm doing it, John. I haven't had a drink since we spoke yesterday." Already, there were noticeable changes about Harry's person - the bags under her eyes were less pronounced, her eyes themselves no longer bloodshot. Her hair was properly washed and brushed, her clothes were clean and fit her properly (if a little on the cheap side).

John blinked at her owlishly. "We... We talked yesterday?"

"You were delirious," Sherlock offered, standing impassively in the corner.

"Oh... Right."

She pressed her lips together, forcing a smile. "I'm getting a job, too, a proper one. Part time at a little clothing shop. Probationary for now, but if I do well, I should get a full-time position."

John mustered a happy smile. "I'm proud of you, Harry," he told her, hand flopping weakly as her patted her interlaced fingers.

"I'm doing it for you," she replied, eyes glittering. "You said you'd get better if I did. I don't care that you were delirious then, I'm still holding you on that. Promise me again?"

"...I promise, Harry. Thank you." More quietly, so only she would hear, he added, "Mum would be proud of you too."

She gave an unsteady laugh. "Better late than never, right?"

He managed another smile, his eyelids slowly drooping closed.

"John?"

"Mm?" he murmured, barely conscious.

"You _will_ get better, won't you?"

"'Course I will. I prom'sed Harry I would..." A sad frown settled on her features as she realised her brother was losing his grip on reality once more. "Tell... Tell Harry I love her, 'kay?"

Tears shone in her eyes. "I will John, you just..." she sniffed, voice thick with emotion. "You just get some get some rest."

A small sigh escaped his lips. "I c'n do that," he mumbled, and then was asleep.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"My name's Harry," she told the Alcoholics Anonymous group.

They all greeted her with a dutiful monotone.

"Why don't you tell us why you've taken the leap and decided to give up alcohol?" prompted the meeting organiser. She gazed attentively at Harry, her frizzy brown hair and ruffled pink blouse fluttering with every slight movement.

Harry took a deep breath. "My brother's sick. Like, really sick." The organiser nodded sympathetically. "Most of the time, he's either asleep or hallucinating... Once he was just bawling his eyes out because he was so upset with my drinking. He never cries, and there were all these tears streaming down his face... He begged me to stop drinking, so I did. I haven't touched a bottle in over a week."

"Well done, Harry. We all hope that you'll continue your journey to a healthier, happier lifestyle, and of course that your brother's sickness fades quickly too." The group applauded her obediently. "Now, who's next?"

A timid-looking man with tousled dark brown hair and a stained white shirt raised a tentative hand. "Hello, I'm Jim."

"Hi, Jim," the group chorused.

"I've had issues with alcoholism for a long time. My wife left me two years ago because of it, and got full protective custody of our son. I have a mental instability, onset by my drinking problem, and the courts ruled that his life could be endangered if I was allowed to be with him alone... I've been drinking more heavily than ever now because I just don't know what to do. I know I need help, but..."

"That's what we're here for, Jim," the organiser told him supportively. "What's your son's name?"

Jim smiled lovingly. "Sherlock."

"What an unusual name," the organiser enthused. "Where's it from?"

"It's an Old English name, I'm pretty sure. There's this detective, Sherlock Holmes - really smart - I'm a big fan. I named my son after him."

Harry stared at him, her attention caught by the mention of the consulting detective's name. Sherlock Holmes had _fans_?

"That's nice," the organiser continued. "And you want to clean yourself up, so that you can see him again?"

Jim nodded. "That's right. I want to deal with my alcoholism, then get some help for my mental health issues. I'd give anything just to be with Sherlock again."

"Very good. I assure you, giving up alcohol will help bring you back together with Sherlock." She smiled warmly, and he nodded enthusiastically.

"I'd like that, very much."

The organiser nodded back, then returned her focus to the group as a whole. "Okay, who's going to go next...?"

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: HMM, I WONDER WHO THIS JIM FELLOW COULD BE. Haha, I'm just kidding.

Yes, Moriarty will feature in the next chapter as well (I mean, it wouldn't be a Sherlock story without at least _some _mention of Moriarty, now would it?). Hehe, just imagining that end scene as if it was actually on TV. They'd do a quick panning shot of the group so you'd be all "...the hell? Was that Moriarty?" and then keep cutting away or blurring shots of him so you don't see him again until he talks, and the response would mainly be, "*gasp* HOLY SHIT it _was_ him!" (At least, that's what my reaction would've been. :P)

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you'll review!

-pixie.


	7. Moriarty

Sherlock sighed inwardly as she knocked on the door. Of course, he knew it was Harry; she'd come to the flat at the same time every evening to see John, whether he was unconscious, hallucinating or lucid. She showed quite a level of determination, he had to admit, going from almost constantly having some form of alcohol in her system to having absolutely none. Still, they maintained a wary tension. Sherlock's initial opinion of her had improved somewhat with the advent of her alcoholic fast, but he was still far from having even a neutral opinion of her.

Harry clomped up the stairs and marched straight to John's room, not even looking at Sherlock as she knelt at the sleeping John's beside. Sherlock wished Mrs Hudson would stop letting her in. "How has he been, Mr Holmes?" She was still uncomfortable with using his first name, and Sherlock was fine with that. He didn't want that level of familiarity with her anyway.

"No improvement, if not worse." He leaned back in his chair. "He was awake and coherent for a few hours last night, but he started hallucinating about the war again around six in the morning. It was almost fifteen minutes before I could calm him down, and he's been asleep since."

She nodded a few times, pressing her lips together in an effort to stop their trembling. "Okay. That's not... Okay." John stirred slightly, and she sat forward eagerly, but he was only shifting in his sleep. After a few seconds, she sighed, adding, "Met a fan of yours today."

He turned his gaze on her, interest piqued. "Really? Who was he?"

"He's part of my AA group. Jim, I think his name was. Named his son after you."

"Hmm." Sherlock sat back again, steeping his fingers. If Harry had happened to tear her eyes from her brother, she would probably have been confused at the bright spark of interest gleaming in his eyes.

_Jim Moriarty, _he mused. _What are you up to?_

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Delicate, poignant music drifted from Sherlock's violin. The apartment was otherwise completely silent - John was asleep (unconscious) and Harry had left hours ago. Sherlock stopped playing, back to the door.

"I'd say it's nice to see you again, but..."

"Oh, you really are quite good, aren't you?" Moriarty replied mockingly from the doorway.

Sherlock said nothing as he turned around, merely using the bow as an indicator as to where Jim should sit. Moriarty rather deliberately chose the other chair, propping one foot on the opposite knee. Sherlock settled himself in John's usual armchair, leaning his violin against it.

"So, you have a drinking problem. That's new."

He waved a hand affably, then put on an exaggeratedly timid and hopeful expression. "I've been an alcoholic for years, and my wife took my son away because I'd become unstable," he moaned dramatically, crocodile tears glimmering in his eyes. "I'd do anything just to see my little Sherlock again." He smirked at Sherlock, who gazed impassively back at him. "But, obviously, Daddy's not on a social call." He cocked his head. "You want to know why I'm here?"

"I already know why you're here."

Moriarty grinned savagely. "That's my boy."

"It's about John."

He made a neutral gesture. "You know, I was interested to see what would happen if I did something to your pet. Disappointingly boring, as it turns out."

"I knew you were behind this somehow."

The consulting criminal raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "How easy it is for people to say they knew all along," he mused. "Funny thing, isn't it? The wisdom that comes with hindsight."

"What did you have them poison John with?"

"Oh, right, _that_." Moriarty grimaced, making a show of unfolding his legs, then grasping the arms of his seat and readjusting himself. "I guess I should have thought ahead with that one a little more, _in hindsight_." He smiled wolfishly. "I know what you're really asking, of course. There's no cure."

Sherlock gave a non-committal shrug. "I never really expected that there was, with you involved."

"And yet you ask."

One eyebrow quirked. "Did I?"

He rolled his eyes. "You were going to."

Silence pervaded the room for several seconds, the tension almost palpable.

"He'll get better," Moriarty told him. "Should only take a day or two. That is, if it doesn't kill him first. How long _was_ he breathing it in before you swooped in and saved him?"

All was quiet for a few more uncomfortable moments.

"Am I going to have to contribute everything in this conversation?"

No answer.

"Good thing I love the sound of my own voice."

Still nothing.

"They're all dead now, you know. That's what happens to things that outlive their usefulness to me."

Sherlock inclined his head, finally speaking. "I'll keep that in mind."

Moriarty gazed at him piercingly, getting to his feet. "You should." He straightened his suit emphatically. "It happened to them, and it'll happen to you. Your death will be far more spectacular than theirs, of course, but you won't exactly be around for long enough to appreciate the true mastery of it."

"Never a dull moment with you, is there?" Sherlock gave him a slight smile, not looking perturbed in the least.

Moriarty paused at the door. "No, not really." Then he opened it and left the apartment.

Tendrils of music twined down after him as he descended the stairs.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Sherlock sat at John's bedside, fingers knotted, a single line furrowing his brow. John had been asleep for over sixteen hours, tossing all the while. Any fluids Sherlock managed to get into him were promptly vomited back out again. His sweating had increased dramatically, leaving his forehead and cheeks still burning with fever, but the rest of his skin as clammy as a corpse's. His breathing had grown ragged and laboured, eyelids quivering as they struggled to escape the trappings of his feverish dreams.

He had been ignoring it mostly up until that point, but as both Mycroft and Moriarty had pointed out, there was an unfavourable probability that John would not survive his affliction. The more time that passed, the more John's body weakened, and the smaller his chances of recovery grew. Sherlock rubbed his temples, frustrated and anxious. He was really not equipped to deal with this (_any_) level of emotion.

John's back arched suddenly and he lurched forward, eyes flying open. Sherlock fell back in shock. Chest heaving, John cast his gaze wildly around the room, only regaining some semblance of calm when he saw Sherlock sitting in his familiar spot - if looking a sight more alarmed than when he had seen him last.

"That chair looks bloody uncomfortable," John told him once his breathing became regular, slouching back on his pillows.

Sherlock glanced down at his seat, as if only just realising it was there.

"It's fine." He couldn't quite stop the twitch of his lips into a smile.

"Why don't you just get one of the lounge chairs from the living room in here?"

He shrugged. "Because then it wouldn't be in the living room anymore."

John shifted slightly under his blankets, giving him an odd look. "You make very little sense sometimes, you know that?"

"It's been mentioned to me before, yes."

They grinned briefly at each other.

"Could you get me some soup? I'm starving." Sherlock obediently stood and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a steaming bowl. "I made some earlier, I just reheated it," he told John, explaining his speedy return.

"Would you... Would you give me the spoon?"

"John-"

With some effort, the doctor pushed himself up onto his elbows. "I think I can do it, Sherlock." Sherlock sighed, but put the soup on the chair and helped John sit up before passing him the bowl and the spoon. John grasped the utensil tenderly, almost like he had forgotten how. Then he scooped up a spoonful of soup and swallowed it. He repeated the action until the bowl was clean, at which point Sherlock put it aside for him. A smile of pure joy lit John's features. "I can eat by myself again," he said wonderingly.

Sherlock smiled tiredly. It was only then that John noticed the bags under his eyes, black as bruises.

"Sherlock, how long has it been since you slept? More than a few minutes, I mean?"

"It's Tuesday now, isn't it? That would be Monday..." John raised an eyebrow. "Last week..."

His jaw almost dropped. "And you've just, what, been making soup, trying to calm me when I'm hallucinating and... and watching me sleep that whole time?"

"And being annoyed by your sister, yes."

He raised a thin hand to rub his disbelieving face. "Well, that's... touching, in an unsettling kind of way. But I'm obviously getting better now. You're going to burn yourself out if you keep going like this."

"What are you on about, I'm fine." His protest was marred by a poorly smothered yawn.

"Go to bed, Sherlock."

"No, no, I'll stay here..." he murmured, already slumping against John's covers.

Suddenly, John felt very tired too. He might have been getting better, but it was still a long road to recovery. After such a long period of weakness, even eating soup had proved a strenuous activity. John yawned, and was soon swallowed by the realm of dreams.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Mrs Hudson bustled in at her usual time with her chamomile tea, only to find both John and Sherlock sound asleep. She smiled fondly at seeing the two boys folded over one another, Sherlock leaning across from his chair over John's multi-blanketed legs, John using his back as a pillow. _I'll come back later_.

.:' :. .:':. .:':.

John stretched languorously, sighing with satisfaction as the bones in his shoulders popped. His ribs had finally finished healing, giving him back full motion of his torso. He found himself rather pleased at the fact.

He looked down in surprise as he realised that Sherlock was sleeping on his lap, torso curling over John's legs and barely keeping his own backside on his seat. The taller man seemed to fold up impossibly small, a sad frown playing on his lips, making him look both childish and vulnerable.

He'd never seen Sherlock asleep before - unless you counted the time he'd been drugged into insensibility by Irene Adler. Even then, he'd been spread-eagled on his bed from where John had thrown him, face mashed into the pillows. It was interesting. The layers of Sherlock Holmes were simply stripped away, and it was hard to reconcile him with the supremely arrogant genius that John knew so well.

The movement of John's body stirred Sherlock. He'd always been a light sleeper. He stretched like a cat, arms extending over his head as he yawned hugely. "Morning, John. I'll go get some soup."

"No, Sherlock - I'm recovering, you can go back to the case. Fever's broken now, and everything. I'll get my own soup; I'll be good as new in a few days."

Sherlock eyed him sceptically. "We still have very little idea of what you were poisoned with, or as to the nature of its psychological effects_." And no matter what he said, you can't trust Moriarty. Besides, he only told you John would get better if he didn't die, not that he would stay that way. Although, if you _do_ believe him, there isn't much of a case to go back to. _ "It's very possible you could suffer a relapse." His tone became condescending. "You're a doctor, you should know that."

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: I've just gone back and checked this, and it was an entirely subconscious action, but I've put all John's thoughts in first person and all of Sherlock's in second. Which I guess makes sense, really, personal versus impartial if directed at a thought process... Weird how things can just work their way into my writing without me even noticing!

Also, Moriarty was disturbingly easy for me to write for. That's a pretty bad sign, isn't it? I thought so, so I asked a friend what his thoughts were. He replied that we were similar, and that was why it was really easy for me to write for him. Something about inflicting unnecessary violence. That's _definitely_ a very bad sign, isn't it? I only punch him in the arm if he's making inappropriate comments, I swear!

-pixie.


	8. Recovery

A/N: Hehe, just realised I use italics _way _more in this fic than I have in any other story. I really don't know why. Maybe it's just the type if stuff I'm writing. More violence. And yelling.

-pixie.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Despite Sherlock's initial scepticism, John's health increased steadily. Within a few days, John had gained enough strength to leave his bed and take a few tottering steps. With the aid of his old cane, he was able to hobble around the flat, usually parking himself in his favourite armchair. Harry was delighted, as she really had taken his promise to heart. She'd made another promise of her own to him then - to mend her fractured relationship with Clara, to stay off the drink indefinitely, and to just overall be a better sister to him.

He was extremely glad of the news, but it was tempered with irritation that Sherlock refused to let him leave the flat. John had argued with him - quite extensively - but the consulting detective was resolute. John was not leaving 221B until a full recovery had been made.

So John set about getting better as quickly as he possibly could.

When he had told Sherlock that was what he would do, the other man had scoffed. "You'll recover at the rate your body dictates, and no faster. Really, John, you'll _make_ yourself better more quickly by what, force of will? I'm not denying you have plenty of that, but the notion is absurd in the extreme."

John had just grinned at him. "Oh, how you underestimate me."

With that, John set about proving Sherlock wrong. It started small, just tottering around the apartment, cane clunking against the floor, for half an hour each morning. He gave Sherlock extensive shopping lists, and when the groceries arrived home John prepared giant meals that he wolfed down with abandon, and forced Sherlock to eat some as well. Although he would deny it every time the doctor asked, they both knew he had not eaten almost the entire time John had been sick. Then, as he got progressively better, John started on his usual daily workout, albeit a severely toned-down recombination. John was always the soldier, and he would always strive to keep himself in as good a physical condition as he could manage, even if the shapeless jumpers he wore veiled any aesthetic proof of this. Every day since he had been discharged from the army, bar the past few weeks where he had been unable to drag himself out of bed, John would follow the same exercise regimen, derived from manoeuvres used throughout his military training.

Old habits were hard to break.

In less than a month, there was no evidence remaining that he had been sick, and he took the opportunity to crow at Sherlock for the fact. The detective had snorted derisively and retorted that there was no proof that these actions had hastened his return to health, although secretly conceding that this was, in fact, likely the case.

"Just face it, Sherlock." John grinned at Sherlock from his armchair. "You were wrong."

"You could still relapse," he sniped back, fingers deftly stroking the strings of his violin as he tuned it.

The smile faded. "You almost sound like you want it to happen. Can you really not stand being wrong that much?"

"No, John, of course I-" He stopped his fumbling apology as a John snorted, then howled with laughter.

"Oh God, your _face_!" Tears of mirth streamed down his cheeks.

"Yes, John, very amusing. Alright, you got the better of me-"

John drowned him out with a particularly loud burst of cackling. Sherlock had the grace to allow himself a small chuckle.

"Oh, that just made my day," John gasped, sides shaking. Sherlock grunted noncommittally. John stretched his arms above his head, sighing in contentment. His merriment dimmed after a few seconds, and he looked at Sherlock seriously. "There's something that's been bugging me about that case you were on."

Sherlock looked up briefly, then returned to his violin. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Um, how the hell _did_ you get me out of that building? Or get _inside_ in the first place?"

His fingers flicked across the strings. "They let me in."

"They let you-" John cast about disbelievingly. "They let you in. Just like that."

"Yes," he replied, in a tone that indicated that it should have been obvious. John stared. Sherlock sighed. "I slipped up, alright? I was hacking one of their systems and... someone saw, and figured out exactly what I had and hadn't seen. Aside from things crucial to the case, I discovered that they had kidnapped you, and where they were holding you. They gassed you, and pulled out, knowing I wouldn't pursue them if I was taking care of you. It was a rather deliberate choice of drug, one that would keep you sick - and subsequently, keep me busy - for weeks, giving them enough time to gather their people and assets and flee the country. Although you might just find that they won't be bothering anyone anymore."

"Mycroft?" John hazarded a guess.

Sherlock shrugged vaguely. _Wrong genius._

"Speaking of Mycroft, are you going to take up the case again? You know he'll probably make you, now that I'm better."

"Already solved," Sherlock replied dismissively.

"What?"

The consulting detective fixed him with a piercing gaze. "The case is solved, more or less. I had to do _something_ during the rather extended periods of your unconsciousness. You have a simplistic understanding of how my minds works – God knows I've explained it enough times – you should have realised I wasn't just taking care of you to the exclusion of everything else for the past few weeks." Of course, this had been exactly what Sherlock had done, but as usual, he felt much more comfortable retreating behind his aloof, analytical mask than confronting the notion of caring about someone.

John took a moment to digest this, not entirely convinced. After all, wasn't Sherlock contradicting the statement he'd made at the beginning of John's recovery? He could see that Sherlock was avoiding having to deal with the emotions that he could never quite get the hang of in the first place. He allowed the younger man his indulgence, instead focusing on something else he'd said.

"You said more or less."

"Oh, that." Sherlock's lips twitched upwards, somewhat relieved that John hadn't pursued the more emotional route he'd been expecting. "Mycroft's having to do some damage control." Technically, it was the truth. They both grinned.

"Okay," John clapped his hands and rubbed them together, abruptly changing the topic. "I think we can officially say that I've escaped my brush with death and I'm back in full health. Is your stupid house arrest rule lifted yet?"

"I suppose." Sherlock was glad John had decided to steer clear of the exact circumstances of his kidnapping altogether. Sherlock's deal with Mycroft notwithstanding, Sherlock hadn't wanted to concern the doctor with the knowledge that Moriarty had been involved.

"Want to go see how badly Scotland Yard's been carrying on without you?" John suggested, a smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock smirked, placing the violin to the side. "Oh, I know exactly how bad it's been for those idiots."

"Still, a nice up close and personal wouldn't be too amiss? I've been cooped up in here almost two months now, Sherlock, and so have you. God knows what the criminal world's been up to while you've been in here playing doctor. Besides, I need a change of scenery."

"Alright. Let's go rub it in Anderson's face that they haven't even solved a third of the crimes that have come across their desks without me to point out the blatantly obvious."

John stood, intending to return to his room to get his jacket. He stumbled forward, catching himself on the mantelpiece just in time. "Okay, not a _complete_ recovery yet, I guess." He pushed himself upright and smiled reassuringly, taking more confident strides to his room. "See, momentary lapse. I'm fine." And then, a spark of fear flickered in his eyes a moment before he pitched forward, already unconscious.

"John!" Sherlock lurched towards his friend, catching him and gently lowering him to the ground. "If you're somehow trying to prove a point, know that I'm not finding it amusing in the slightest." There was no response. Not that he'd really expected one. His own statement hadn't made much sense, anyway. Sherlock forced his anxiety down. _God_, but those emotions were irritating! He dragged John back to his room, tucking him under the covers. He placed his (only slightly) shaking fingers under his chin, pacing back and forth. He'd been expecting a relapse, but he hadn't been prepared for it to happen so soon, especially not one that came on with such suddenness. He remembered the predictions about John's state he had made to Mrs Hudson - that he'd eventually slip into a comatose state.

He looked down at John. The doctor was sleeping so deeply he looked like he might never wake up. With a sinking sense of foreboding, Sherlock found it a distinct possibility that he never would.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"How is he now?" Harry's worried voice grated on Sherlock's nerves. Of course, she'd found out about John's relapse in a matter of days. With Harry's improved outlook on life, the two siblings had grown much closer.

He bit back an irritated reply for her to stop asking the same stupid question, and lied, "He was awake about an hour ago. Lucid, but weak." He had no qualms about lying to her. He didn't want to deal with her reaction if she found out that John had been asleep for over twenty-four hours, and was, rather definitely at this point, in a coma.

Harry bit her lip. "He was doing so well... I thought..." _I thought my promise would be enough to make him get better. Stupid, Harry. Stupid, stupid._

Sherlock said nothing. He knew he couldn't keep up the charade forever. It would be an impossible coincidence for John to be asleep every single time she visited - and Sherlock was sure she would resume visiting every evening as she had done in John's first bout of sickness.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

John had been comatose for three days before Harry found out the truth.

When she did, she arrived, very drunk, at 221B. Stumbling up the steps, she tottered to the door and slammed on it with her fist until Sherlock answered. He'd barely had time to take in the mess that was her clothes and countenance before being overcome with the tell-tale reek of cheap alcohol. Gagging, Sherlock leant against the doorframe as his highly tuned senses were assaulted. "You _lied_." Harry seethed at him." He wasn'_ sleeping_, he's been in a bloody coma!" Sheshoved past him. "John!" she slurred angrily, weaving in the general direction of her brother's bedroom.

Sherlock coughed and dry retched a few times, still recovering. Once he'd done that, however, he immediately rushed after Harry (moving considerably faster than she had done). He could already hear her hurling verbal abuse at the unconscious John.

"You can't be dis'pointed in me, John, you broke your promise first, jus' like last time! I needed you to be there, but where were you? Oh, that's right, _gettin' shot_. Hope that hurt, 'cause it hurt _me_. So it's your fault, see, _not mine_. You turned me into this, an alc… alcoh… _a drunk person_," she finished heatedly. She turned to face Sherlock a full second after he had burst into the room, the liquor in her system significantly impairing her reaction time. There had been a bottle clenched in her hand when she had entered the flat, and she had somehow set it upright on John's bedside table. Now, she swept it up again to take a swig, getting as much in her mouth as on her shirt. "And _you_." She lifted her forefinger from the bottle to point at Sherlock, taking an aggressive stance. "What're _you _doing? Why didn't you take John to the hopsital?" Sherlock sighed at her mispronunciation. Her anger and intoxication were giving her a speech impediment. Suddenly, she shot him a look of pure hatred. "This is one if your… _science expediments_, isn't it? John told me about those. You're s'posed to be friends, what friends _do_ that?" Tears brimmed in her eyes, which then narrowed. "Was it _all_ you_? You're_ the one who poisoned John, it's all just for your _stupid expediments_? You _bast_-"

"_Shut up, you drunkard! I did not poison John!"_ Sherlock snapped at her, losing patience, any respect she may have garnered in his eyes dissipating. Harry stared at him, wide-eyed, then broke down into a blubbering mess. "Oh, what now?" he said with disgust. "I'm supposed to sympathise with you, after you accuse me of _slowly murdering _John? Because you're _drunk_?" He looked down his nose at her. "That really is rather deplorable." Harry curled up into a small, sobbing ball. After a few minutes, however, her sniffling subsided, to be replaced with the sound of snoring. Sherlock regarded her with revulsion, considering moving her but eventually deciding he didn't want to subject himself to the stench of the alcohol wafting on her breath again. He moved his chair into the corner furthest from Harry, and settled down to wait until she woke up so he could kick her out.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: Drunk Harry is fun to write (which I realise is disturbing. Oh well.)

*sits back and waits for angry views about how mean she's being to John*

-pixie.


	9. A Turn for the Worst

A/N: Warning: long deductions are long (324 words, to be exact). Hope it makes sense/seems plausible. Enjoy!

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"Oh, my_ head_," Harry moaned the next morning, clutching at the offending body part.

"You have a hangover, Harry," Sherlock informed her unhelpfully, still sitting exactly where he had the night before.

She flinched away from the sound of his voice - not only because his words jack hammered through her aching skull, but because "Hangover Harry" was the not-so-affectionate nickname given to her by the people in her run-down apartment complex.

"Do you have any aspirin?"

"Yes," he answered, not moving an inch, and not deigning to tell her where to find the painkillers. She groaned and stumbled to the bathroom, assuming - correctly - that the medicine cabinet was located within.

Water splashed into the sink and she stuck her face into the stream, washing the grit from her eyes and the furriness from her tongue. One hand gripping the basin for support, she fumbled through the shelves of pills and band-aids until she snagged the half-empty bottle of aspirin. She shook out two capsules, popping them on her tongue and sucking a mouthful of water from the tap. Cramming the lid back on the jar and leaving the cabinet door agape, she tottered over to sit on the lid of the toilet, leaning her head against the cool tiles. It was several minutes before her splitting headache subsided into a dull throb. At that point, she got up and lurched back towards John's room.

Harry had some questions for Sherlock.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

"The other day… How did you know about our parents?" she asked him, leaning on the doorframe as Sherlock had not offered his chair. "John never talks about it with anyone."

"I deduced it," Sherlock replied.

"You what?" Harry asked him blankly.

He needed no further invitation - he never was able to pass up an opportunity to show off.

"John keeps a photograph of his mother in his dresser draw. They were quite close at some point, but she died, obviously, otherwise he'd have the photo in more obvious view - it would sadden him to be constantly reminded of her passing. There's a part of the photo that's been cut off - the picture is far too small to be a standard sized print, at least not a whole one. The right hand side edge of the photograph isn't exactly straight, either, where the scissors have veered slightly off course. There's a man in the picture, or rather, there was. He's on the part that's been removed, only some of his arm still visible - too hairy and muscular to be a woman's. Extremely likely it's the husband. So why would John not want to keep a photo of his father? Obviously, John hated him for whatever reason, and the most probable scenario by far is that he left the family.

"Now, the photograph is faded, suggesting her death was some time ago, but there are a number of white marks where the photographic paper has stuck to something on top of it, as if it had been in a stack of older photos. The spots are clean, with sharp edges that show only slight wearing. It was only recently removed from the stack, then, marking the death itself as recent.

"Why did John choose an older photograph, when there should have been more current ones? Because this was the latest picture of her that she actually looked happy. Many women suffer from depression when their husbands leave them, especially if it's for no apparent reason or for someone else. With one of her children risking being shot or blown up or otherwise killed in the war, and the other slowly poisoning herself to death with alcohol, it's no small wonder that her depression and death were cause and effect - she committed suicide."

Harry had listened to him with a horrified expression on her face, tears staining her cheeks. "Mum's death… was my fault?"

"In combination with a number of other factors, yes."

"Oh god," she wailed, staggering out of the room.

_You should've known that would make her leave, you could have told her sooner!_ Sherlock berated himself mentally. He didn't care about the psychological impact his words had had on her - he didn't even understand it, not really. So, like most emotional reactions, he dismissed it.

Mrs Hudson bustled into the flat with John's chamomile tea, only to be almost swept off her feet as Harry stumbled past her and out the door. "I thought she was giving up the drink?" she asked Sherlock, who had been watching to make sure she left. "Goodness, she must have really taken John's condition hard."

Sherlock's gaze whipped to Mrs Hudson. "_You_ told her? _You're_ the reason I had to deal with her drunken antics?"

Her lips parted slightly as she took a step back. "Of course I told her, she's John's sister. Poor John's been out for three days, I thought she should know, just in case…" she petered off.

"He's not going to wake up? He's _dying_?" Sherlock substituted harshly.

Shocked tears sprung to her eyes. "...Yes," she managed eventually. "I thought she should have the chance to say goodbye before ..._that_… if it does even happen."

"Why? It would make no difference if he was unconscious or dead. He wouldn't hear her either way."

She looked at him as if he were an alien. "I don't understand how you can just seem to have no feelings about his condition at all, I really don't!" She practically dropped the tea tray on the table and hurried out of the room, dissolving into quiet tears.

He ignored her, mulling over his own words. _Dying_. There. He'd said it out loud now.

John was dying.

Sherlock took a shaky breath, running his hands through his unruly dark hair. Steeping his fingers and tucking them securely against his lips and nose, he attempted to analyse his own emotions. He'd been (mostly) ignoring them up until that point, but being confronted by two crying females in as many minutes was making him wonder if there was something wrong in that.

It was painful to delve into them, far more so than Sherlock could have thought possible. He didn't know how to deal with feelings of this magnitude, having never really felt anything on a similar scale. After a few moments' deliberation, he decided to make an emotional equivalent to his mind palace, to leave the feelings there and deal with them later, if at all. It wasn't the same as ignoring them - that entailed acknowledging their existence, and deliberately not paying attention to them. This kept the emotions completely out of view.

Closing his eyes for a few moments, Sherlock gathered up all his concern and distress - both at John's condition and his own ineptitude in taking care of him - and shut them tightly out of sight (thought?), instantly feeling better. He wondered at the outbursts of emotion that everyone else seemed to have in these situations, like Harry and Mrs Hudson had demonstrated. Why didn't normal people just push it away, like he just had? He shrugged to himself, figuring that they didn't have the mental capabilities to do so.

It wasn't as if he ever found that limitation in others a surprising one.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Quietly, and obviously still mad at Sherlock for what he'd said the day before, Mrs Hudson set down the tea tray on John's bedside table.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." The words sounded very hollow.

"Oh, don't bother yourself thanking me," she replied, casting just one of many concerned looks at the sickening figure tossing listlessly in his bed. He was nowhere near being the wasted form he had been in his first bout of sickness, but that did little to console either of them. "…He's really not looking all that good, is he?" Despite still being angry with him for his cold reaction to John's condition, she instantly regretted the words when she saw the look on Sherlock's face.

He took a breath and carefully stowed away the emotion. "I think you should administer the tea now, Mrs Hudson. You're letting it get cold."

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Sally was fuming.

What did Lestrade think he was getting at? They didn't need _Sherlock_ to help solve every single case! Granted, things got done much quicker that way, but it came at the price of their dignity and having to see Sherlock's smug, self-assured expression as he explained to the peons the deductions that came to him without any apparent effort.

She muttered darkly to herself as she marched from the precinct to her car. "...'But he's better than them, he gets it done faster'," she mimicked Lestrade bitterly as she turned the key in the ignition, pulling out of the parking lot with a bit more speed and ferocity than really necessary. "Bloody ridiculous, might as well just fire us all, seeing as the great Sherlock Holmes is basically doing our jobs for us anyway... And now we have to go crawling back to him because some idiot got himself murdered without any leads that anyone _normal_ can find, and we're understaffed as it is with new reports just piling up every day..."

Even when she rapped her knuckles against the door of 221B, she was still glowering. She tapped her toe impatiently against the ground as she waited for Mrs Hudson to open the door.

"Oh, Sergeant Donovan!" The elderly landlady twittered, surprised by the unexpected visitor. "John's not well, I don't think-"

"I'm not here for John. Lestrade wants Sherlock for a case."

Mrs Hudson glanced up the stairs, hands on the edge of the door. "Sherlock's taking care of John," she said eventually. "I'll go see if he won't let me replace him for a few hours so he can help you."

"No need to bother yourself," Sally assured her, forcing a smile onto her face. "I'll go up."

Again, Mrs Hudson hesitated before yielding, opening the door wider and stepping behind it so Sally had enough room to move into the small entryway. Sally's strained smile dropped as soon as she'd passed the older lady, and she stomped irritably up the stairs, and continued to stomp her way to the door of John's room.

"Hello, Freak." Sally leant against the doorway, arms folded.

"Donovan," Sherlock replied flatly. His eyes stayed focused on the sleeping John, trapped in a feverish dream.

"Lestrade wants you down at Scotland Yard. I tried to convince him we can actually do our jobs without you, but he's been insistent." She raised an eyebrow and added, "Heard you haven't left John alone in his bed in days."

"Hilarious, making innuendos about him whilst he lies there dying," Sherlock spat acerbically. A quick flash of guilt flickered in her eyes as she realised she'd gone way over the line. She stared at her high heels, swallowed and turned to leave.

"...I'll tell Lestrade you're not coming."

Sherlock sighed heavily, shakily. The door clicked shut and he was alone.

"What do I do, John?" he asked softly. He had never been so unsure of himself in his life.

An aggravated growl built up in his chest and he slid his head into his hands, palms grinding his eyes. John had only been in his life for just over a year, but he'd made far more of an impact than anyone else he had ever known. The two of them were like brothers - John felt more like his brother than Mycroft, at least, although that never really was saying much. John had had no idea how bad Sherlock had been before they met. Drugs, (barely) controlled explosions, no small number of arrests – he didn't have an aversion to riding in the back of police cars for no reason, after all. Sherlock had often resorted to drastic measures in the past to alleviate his boredom, and the only reason he hadn't ever been incarcerated was because of Mycroft's intervention. His older brother had even, on several occasions, threatened to turn a blind eye when he committed some small felony and let him serve time as a means of forcing him to behave, but Mycroft had never carried through.

But for all the times that Sherlock ignored John's pleas - orders, really - to get his act together, there were twice as many times that he had listened. Much as he hated to admit that he couldn't function at optimum levels without outside help, having a flatmate that could put up with his antics had done a world of good for Sherlock.

And now it seemed that would all be ripped away.

He snapped out of his thoughts as John spasmed violently, eyes flying open. "...What…?" John jerked a few more times then was still, eyes staring glassily at the ceiling. Swiftly picking up the wrist closest to him, Sherlock felt for a pulse, and when he didn't find one, held his cheek next to John's nose, then his chest, searching for some breath or beat of life.

There was nothing.

John was dead.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: *blinks* Um, wow. That... that didn't end up where I expected it to at all. Um... Yeah, I'll post an epilogue in a day or two, just a few hundred words, of how Sherlock deals with this. I seriously didn't mean for things to go in this direction, they just kind of... did. If you're not quite as shocked as I am, would you be so kind as to leave a review? Feel free to yell at me or pound ineffectually at your keyboard. I'm just going to go lie down and think about what I've done.

-pixie.


	10. Epilogue

A/N: 21 reviews?! *grins* I should be this brutal more often.

.:':. .:':. .:':.

Uncertainty coursed through him, making his hands flutter uselessly. It was an unfamiliar emotion to Sherlock, one he had trouble stuffing away. _Okay, calm down_, he told himself sternly. _John got you into watching 'crap telly', didn't he? You've seen CPR performed, it's not a complicated procedure. Even if the serialised version isn't entirely accurate, it must still do _something_!_

Taking a few calming breaths, Sherlock pulled the pillow from under John's head to minimise cramping of his airway, then rhythmically pumped on his chest.

"Come on, John," he muttered. He paused his ministrations to see if they were having any effect, but John was unresponsive, his eyes horribly vacant. Sherlock attempted a few more compressions, then sealed his mouth over John's, forcing his own breath into his friend's lungs. "I am _not_ letting you prove Mycroft right," he growled, hands forcing John's blood to pump around his system. Alternating once more between compressions and breaths, Sherlock was surprised to find the salty taste of tears trickling into his mouth.

_Lock it away, lock it away_.

"Come on, John," he repeated, more to himself than anything. "Come on…"

Without warning, John heaved a shuddering breath. Using one hand to push himself into a sitting position, he used the other to wipe his mouth. "Urgh, what the… Sherlock, did… did you just _kiss_ me? What the hell?"

Sherlock impulsively threw his arms around John's torso, knocking the newly restored breath back out of him.

"Okay, _what_ is going on?"

"Yes, right." Sherlock sat down on his chair, smoothing his shirt front and pulling down his cuffs. "Your heart ceased to pulse and you stopped breathing. I administered CPR."

"You saved my life."

"You don't need to sound so surprised."

"By giving me CPR."

"John…"

"I'm sorry, it's just… where did you even _learn_ CPR?"

He grinned suddenly. "I watched crap telly."

"You performed CPR methods you learned off the telly…" John flopped back onto his pillows disbelievingly. "How am I not dead?" he asked the ceiling.

"Technically, you were, at least for approximately forty-six seconds." John just shook his head incredulously. "I wouldn't mind some gratitude," Sherlock told him, a little miffed. "Unless I was mistaken and you don't like living."

"Yes, sorry, thank you, Sherlock." He smiled warmly, shifting himself onto his elbows.

"I know you would have done the same if circumstances dictated it."

John nodded once in the affirmative. "Of course.

"Though I would try to do it without kissing you."

.:':. .:':. .:':.

A/N: CPR is as close as I'll go to ever writing slash, lol. And of course John wasn't going to stay dead, I'm not _that_ brutal.

Hope you all enjoyed the fic! This is (was?) the last chapter, I'm afraid. I won't really go into what happens past this point, at least not in a story format. Suffice it to say, John is no longer in danger from the poison; it'd take him a few weeks, if not months, to regain his strength and health, but he'd get there (basically, same as his earlier recovery period, sans the relapse). Mycroft's still running clean-up. Also, I realise that there are number of things that cropped up during the story that warrant an explanation. Well, you've got excellent imaginations, I'm sure, you can come with something. Because mine is being rather lazy at the moment. If there is something that's really bugging you, though, feel free to voice it in a review or a PM and I'll do my best to scrounge up a reason for it. :P

Now, I probably won't be writing much for a while – maybe a one-shot or two if luck will have it – as my HSC exams are coming up fast. My last exam is on Thursday the 8th of November (I have an exam on the last possible day, typical), and I should be posting new multi-chapter stuff that weekend. I've already got the shell of the story planned – it will involve Moriarty, Sherlock dealing with emotion (because it's fun) and John being an absolute BAMF (which I imagine will be a ton of fun to do :).

Until then,

-pixie.


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